dear me

i opened my trusty old mailbox that sits at the street and 

found among the junkyard of paper, three letters. 

letters. handwritten. stamped. 

all addressed to dear me.

all in one day.

letters from three of my favorite people, 

each thanking me for the small gesture of friendship,

on an early spring day

blueberries in hand, i visited two of my friends the week before,

for no reason in particular, except i had not seen them in awhile.

we sat, listened, laughed, remembered

and the gift was mine —

time to study not the clock but their faces, time to meet not a deadline but our minds, after an extended absence.

what treasures these friends are to me, i thought as i drove home,

unaware that both would that day 

set down on paper in their own scrawl what 

my gesture meant to them. 

and send it on.

the third note, filled with colorful squiggles 

drawn by my favorite three-year-old (and the pen of her mother) 

was in celebration of something good we had done together.

those squiggles on envelope and note tell me that  one day when that funny three-year-old can write words,

she, too, will set words to paper in 

her own scrawl, seal, stamp

then send it on, 

for someone dear to find 

in a rusty old mailbox at the street,

for no reason in particular

which is reason, well enough

 

sbr